


Rapture Drabbles

by innie



Series: Rapture [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:30:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/pseuds/innie





	Rapture Drabbles

"Beginning"

Sam stumbles around for the rest of the weekend, thinking of Pete and smiling, and Dad amusedly mutters something about _fools in love_ to Dean.

Never mind that Dean's pretty much been _glowing_ since he brought his “girl” home. Sam's positive he couldn't look any dopier than Dean. 

But Dad’s words change something, and there's no denying that everything would be easier if he really was still interested in Jaime. He tosses and turns all Sunday night, listening to Dean’s aggravating snores.

Monday morning, on the steps of the school, Sam says, "Hey," and Pete smiles and bumps his shoulder.

#

"Soda"

Pete dumps his potato chips out between them like always, and Sam isn’t shy about grabbing some. Their hands brush once, and Sam could swear that there’s a little zap of static electricity charging the air.

He takes a bite out of his tuna fish sandwich nonchalantly, as if he’s totally cool, but when the warning bell rings, he startles and knocks over his carton of milk.

“Here,” Pete says, helping to mop up the puddle. “You can finish mine.” Sam closes his eyes when his mouth touches the soda can right where Pete’s mouth had been a minute before.

#

"Halloween" 

"Your hair flops all over the place, so you should be Harry," Pete says, frowning seriously at Sam.

"But Ron has red hair and freckles," Sam objects, looking at Pete’s blond hair. "Maybe we should -"

"I got it! I’ll be Hedwig!" In a minute, he’s got a makeshift yellow beak held up over his nose, and his brown eyes are round and bright, smiling at Sam.

Sam ignores the flutter in his stomach, the pleased zing that Pete wants them to enter together, as a team. "You sure?"

"We’re gonna win," Pete says, and their high-five turns into clasped hands.

#

"Brave" 

Maybe camping is better than Sam ever gave it credit for before.

"It’s a little chillier than expected out here," Pete’s dad says, smiling at the two of them pressed up against each other. "Grub?"

Hot dogs on sticks are fantastic, but dessert is amazing. He makes the perfect s’more and pulls it apart with Pete, strands of white and brown stretching between them.

Pete’s dad is gathering firewood when Sam grows brave. Right next to Pete’s mouth is a chocolate smear. It tastes sweet, but Pete’s even braver, and he moves so that all they’re tasting is each other.

#

"Sick" 

Pete’s mom is a pair of snow boots on the steps and a voice calling down the stairs. "Honey? Are you feeling any better?"

Pete goes pink, turns to face the steps, and shouts, "Yeah." Sam stares at his back, feeling a little betrayed. He should have known he hadn’t developed ping-pong skills overnight, enabling him to keep Pete to such a close game. 

Pete spins back around, looking embarrassed, and Sam lets the question of his athleticism drop.   
"What’s the matter?" he whispers, like anyone’s listening.

"Nothing," Pete whispers back.

"You swear?"

"I swear. Your serve, Sam."

"Game point."

#

"Peace"

"You gonna need those again next Sunday?" Dean asks, gesturing at his chinos and button-down shirt.

"I don’t know," Sam answers, scrubbing at the bloodstain on his right cuff. "Why?"

"Planning when to do laundry," Dean says, whisking eggs with a fork. "Maybe -"

"They’re here!" Sam bolts at the sound of the honk. "Bye!"

The church is beautiful, dark wood and light stained all different colors by the glass. The minister reminds Sam of Pastor Jim, and Pete is warm next to him. The stain on his shirt doesn’t matter anymore, and he stands with everyone around him and sings.

#

"Judgment"

Since his hands are full, Sam lets Pete have the honor of kicking Dean’s ankle to get him to slide out from under the latest car in need of his TLC. 

"Whaaaaat," Dean grouses, like he wouldn’t be scouring the countryside with, like, bloodhounds if Sam failed to check in.

"We made sponge cake in home ec today," Sam says, holding out the flimsy paper plate. Dean goes for a big piece, reaching out with dirty fingers. He chews contemplatively.

"Well?" Pete asks.

"Nice job," Dean says, with his mouth full. "What are the odds it’ll be pie next week?"

#

"Victors"

It’s raining, _again_ , so instead of playing soccer out on the field, Snyder’s going to keep them inside doing drills. Great. It’s not like he wanted unbruised shins or anything.

But Snyder apparently likes to keep them guessing, because they’re playing dodgeball instead. 

Sam’s stomach drops out as Pete glances over at him. It’s not like playing this stupid game is going to make him dumb all over again, chasing after Jaime, but it’s not like he needs the reminder, either.

They’re both out in the first minute, and they sit close, watch, and do commentary as the game unfolds.

#

"Bloody"

There’s a bubble of blood, a smear of dark red, on the tip of Pete’s finger, seeping through the sickly tan of his Band-Aid. It’s not like Sam’s ever gotten queasy at the sight of blood, but he has to avert his eyes from Pete’s hand every time it comes into view.

Bad enough he has to see Dad bandaged up. Bad enough that he’s the one who bandages Dean up most of the time, promising himself each time that it will be the last.

There’s no way he’s going to be okay with seeing Pete’s blood too. No way.

#

"Lucky" + "Vertigo"

Pete’s still in his button-down shirt from church and Sunday night dinner at his aunt’s house; his face is serious in a way that makes him look older than he should.

"Lori said Aunt Jean would flip if she knew," Pete says. "It’s so stupid."

"What is it?" Sam asks.

"Lori’s been seeing this guy, Ray," - Sam nods, he remembers that much - "and he’s black."

"So?"

"It shouldn’t matter, right? Lori’s gonna catch hell, just for that."

How can that possibly still matter, in this day and age?

"I got lucky with my parents, but Lori didn’t."

"She has you."

Pete smiles self-deprecatingly at that, and Sam shakes him. "I’m serious."

"I just feel bad for her. My mom’s practically ready to adopt you, but Lor can’t even mention Ray in front of her mom."

"Well, I am pretty great," Sam jokes, needing to see a real smile on Pete’s face.

"And your family’s been cool with us, too, right?" Pete asks.

"Yeah," Sam says, not even sure if he’s lying. Dad doesn’t _know_ , but does Dean? If Dean knew that he’d kissed Pete and wanted to do it again, would he still want to be Sam’s brother?

Sam shivers.

#

"Haircut" + "Brink"

Dad finishes the trim he's giving to Dean's hair and brushes the stray hairs off him with the side of one hard hand. The slap he gives the back of Dean's neck, right over some scratches, sounds loud like a shotgun blast.

"Sonofabitch!" Dean yelps, rubbing the spot. "What, you're upset that I'm the handsomest devil around?"

"What I'm worried about," Dad says, dry as dust, "is that every last one of your girlfriends feels the need to take a chunk out of you."

"Everybody wants a keepsake," Dean says with a smirk, but Dad doesn't look appeased.

"You can't be anything less than a hundred percent, Dean. I'm not gonna say you can't have your fun, but I can't be wondering if you're going to be hobbled on our next hunt because of what you've gotten up to with your latest girl." He pushes Dean's shoulder and beckons Sam forward. "Sam here isn't running around black and blue even though he got his girl."

Sam swallows. How much does Dean know? Dean flicks a glance at him and nods. "Got it, Dad."

Sam sits in the chair.

Dad's hands are warm in his hair, but Sam can't help shivering.

#

"Flying"

Indian summer, Dad had said, smiling like the words could make him forget how sticky it was even inside the house. Sam sweated through target practice and then rode into town with Dean.

Pete showed up on his bike ten minutes later and Dean, climbing into his coveralls, gave them both a _go on, scram_ kind of friendly nod.

"Here," Pete said, handing over a skateboard.

"I don't-" Sam started.

"Hold the back of the seat," Pete said, "and we'll go."

They were _flying_ , going so fast, wind whipping their hair and drying their sweat. Sam laughed and held on.

#

"Popsicle"

"What flavor do you want?"

Sam stared at the box in Pete's hand. That bright yellow box with the cartoon dragon and the four dancing popsicles was totally familiar; that was the same brand Dean used to buy him when he was sick and his throat felt like he'd swallowed an entire beach of sand and grit.

"Whatever," he said. "Cherry."

"Those taste like cough syrup to me," Pete said with a shrug, handing it over.

Small stores wouldn't sell a kid Dean's age cough syrup, so he'd made do with cheap popsicles. "Not to me," Sam said, looking away.

#

"Flavor" + "Zombie"

Pete's house had a front porch near the driveway and a back porch that felt like a secret clubhouse because it was so quiet. They sat on the back porch with their popsicles. Sam slurped at his ferociously, not wanting any sticky juice to trickle down his hand. He finished first, and stuck the stick in the closest flowerpot.

He turned to Pete and laughed. "You look like a zombie," he said, knowing _they_ at least weren't real. 

Pete swallowed his last bite, pushed his stick down in the dirt next to Sam's, and made his hands into zombie claws. 

He leaned in. His green mouth was getting so close.

Sam closed his eyes, breathing in the scents of sugar and lime, and pushed forward. Their mouths collided, teeth banging together, but it didn't matter because Pete's mouth tasted sweet with syrup and somehow dark too, like a cave with a secret pool in it, a cave where you could go to be alone and think your thoughts, and then Pete's hand came up and pushed at his hair, and Sam let him do that because he knew Pete wouldn't have gotten popsicle juice on his hands either. They kissed.

#

"Harmony"

The heat held for the rest of the weekend, covering everything in a shimmering haze. Sam hated waking up early, but if he did his run any later than six, he'd be nothing but a puddle on the sidewalk before he got more than a block away. 

Cleaning the weapons in the relative cool of the living room was better than doing the obstacle course for his afternoon session. Dad actually came and sat with him and they worked for a while, the sounds of knives on whetstones setting new rhythms for the Beatles songs Dad sang along to sometimes.


End file.
